


Machiavellian

by alxndrlightwoods



Series: armed prophets [1]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Confident Alec Lightwood, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Murder, POV Outsider, Pre-Canon, Romantic Fluff, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Underage Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-29 19:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18784789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alxndrlightwoods/pseuds/alxndrlightwoods
Summary: He can see the thoughts whirling in Magnus’s brain. Magnus had managed to make it four hundred years, patiently waiting and keeping a weather eye on the Lightwood family for the majority of that. And his beautiful, perfect,wonderfulsoulmate hadn’t even managed to make itthree years.They were disgustingly perfect for each other.





	Machiavellian

**Author's Note:**

> oh look it’s the first non-nsfw fic we’ve written
> 
> Alec is 17. If that's an issue, don't read the fic.

Edom is boring, and while he’s interested in this break from monotony, the last thing he expects is to be _forcibly_ summoned into what feels like the most secure summoning circle he’s ever been in.

He looks around curious. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting — an open field, an elaborate altar, a stormy cliffside? — but he’s in…  a warehouse. A surprisingly clean one.

Well, mostly.

There are several exsanguinated corpses chained to the rafters, throats neatly cut.

He looks at them for a few moments before looking down at the circle he’s in, which, yes, has been drawn in blood. Dead men’s blood. _Nephilim_ blood. His eyes drift away from the circle — which he’s not getting out of unless his summoner decides to let him, he’s impressed — to see another heap of Nephilim, these ones alive, if unconscious. He can see runes shining on various exposed body parts. Probably ones meant to keep them unconscious.

The only conscious being in the room other than himself is a doe-eyed, fluffy haired _child_.

“Did you summon me?” he asks, incredulously. He’s not good with mortal ages, but the boy is _young_.

“Yes,” the boy confirms. “Hello. I’d like to make a deal.”

He blinks guilelessly at Asmodeus. He must be stupid, to have summoned Asmodeus and think that it’s going to go well.

“A deal,” he repeats slowly. “And what is it you desire from me, little Nephilim?”

To summon himself, a greater demon, a Prince of Hell, it must be something ambitious and elaborate. It should be easy to talk the boy into a loophole, get out of the circle and —

“I’m your son’s soulmate, and I was hoping you could direct me to him, since the name on my arm isn’t really helpful,” the boy says, bringing his train of thought to a crashing halt.

_What._

The boy keeps talking.

“I finally managed to translate it, but all I could figure out is it means ‘son of Asmodeus’, and obviously he isn’t running around going by that,” the boy continues, like he isn’t the first person to surprise Asmodeus in a century.

“How old are you?” Asmodeus asks, cutting him off.

The boy blinks at him again. He looks _ridiculously_ unintelligent as he does it.

“I’m seventeen,” he says. He tilts his head curiously. “Does that matter?”

Asmodeus looks down at the circle again, then back at the boy.

“Clearly not,” he says. “How are you going to pay for this information, exactly?”

He is very interested in this answer.

The boy widens his eyes. They’re hazel, and he looks completely innocent, but now, Asmodeus can see the the brightness in them when he does.

The boy looks away from Asmodeus to look at the heap of unconscious bodies. Asmodeus follows his gaze.

“By the Angel,” the boy says. “This place is just _filled_ with dark magic. I think all these rogue shadowhunters tried to summon a greater demon and had it backfire! What a shame they did the summoning wrong and you ended up eating all of them. Dear Raziel, I think some of them were even in the circle with you when you went back down to Edom, I bet they ended up travelling back with you!”

Asmodeus stares at him, mystified. The boy has a guiltless look on his face.

“I’m a planner,” he finishes with a shrug. He suddenly looks much less doe-eyed and not at all stupid, expression instead relaxed and Machiavellian.

Asmodeus finds himself almost unwillingly charmed, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

This boy is _definitely_ Magnus’s.

“I will need to see the name,” he agrees, tipping his head in a small nod to signal his acceptance of the deal.

The boy unbuckles the leather bracer on his right forearm, peeling the covering away and tilting it so Asmodeus can see the characters inked on his skin.

 _Malphas._ His most favored son.

“My son has been looking for you for four hundred years,” he muses. He remembers the annoyance he had felt when he found out his son’s soulmate was a _Nephilim_ of all things, further exuberated by the fact that his son hadn’t been bothered by the prospect. He doesn’t often admit to being wrong, but he was in this case. The boy is perfect for his son.

“So he doesn’t mind that I’m a shadowhunter?” the boy — Alexander Gideon Lightwood — asks hopefully.

“What would you do if I said he did?” Asmodeus counters. He’s going to make a guess that the answer will involve more bloodshed, and possibly fire. His son has always been partial to fire.

Alexander considers for a moment. “I’d be very sad.”

Asmodeus waits him out.

“And then I’d do my best to figure out which part of me being a shadowhunter he had an issue with, so I could fix it,” Alexander continues, their eyes locked. “My _parabatai_ and sister have never really liked rules, they’d probably help me.”

“He goes by Magnus Bane,” Asmodeus says. That answer definitely promised fire and bloodshed, in the form of a revolution. It’s a pity that Magnus isn’t going to have a problem with his soulmate being a shadowhunter, Asmodeus would have loved to see it.

“The High Warlock of Brooklyn?” Alexander asks, taken aback.

Asmodeus nods, curious. Does his son have such a reputation? If so, he’s proud.

“I live in Manhattan,” Alexander explains, “That’s like, right next door.”

“Convenient,” Asmodeus agrees. It is. They probably would have met sometime in the next decade, at the latest. The boy had no reason to summon him. “If that’s all?”

Alexander makes a agreeing noise and starts dragging the living Nephilim over to shove them, one by one, into the circle.

“Thanks for your help,” he says when he’s done.

“You’re welcome,” Asmodeus replies. He even means it.

“Wait, one more thing,” Alexander says, in the process of breaking the connection and sending Asmodeus and his new toys back to Edom. “If I invite you to my wedding, will you promise not to harm anyone while you’re here in exchange for a summon?”

Asmodeus _laughs,_ sound bubbling up in his throat helplessly.

“Summon me again and find out,” he orders. His son’s soulmate nods in agreement before slashing the circle apart.

* * *

Alec hums to himself as he finishes ringing the warehouse in fireproof runes. It wouldn’t do to let the fire he’s about to set rage out of control and spread. This needs to look like a contained failure, like a greater demon got summoned incorrectly, got pissed off, and murdered everyone involved.

He’s got his soulmate’s _name._ He grins to himself.

 _Magnus Bane._ He’s heard his mother rant about the man before, so there must be a Clave file on him. Probably an extensive one, judging by her vitriol.

Alec could _probably_ just…  make an appointment and meet him. But considering the Uprising had been centered in New York and Magnus was the High Warlock of Brooklyn, he probably didn’t have a good opinion of shadowhunters. The last thing Alec wants to do is make his soulmate uncomfortable. Alec is older than the peace that’s followed the end of the Uprising, and considering Warlocks live for centuries, he’s probably still pretty angry about it.

Not that Alec can blame him. He’s been angry about it for the last three years, ever since his mark came in. Even since he discovered his soulmate was a _Warlock._ He’d always thought the Uprising was stupid, but he’s personally invested in thinking it was stupid now.

He ducks back inside the warehouse to pull all the bodies down and pile them in the center of the circle before drawing fire and manifest runes on everything. Everything goes up like tinder, turning into a raging conflagration within minutes. He watches to make sure the blood making up the circle burns to ash before he retreats, locking the doors behind him.

It’s the middle of the day and the glamour runes he put up everywhere before he started should last until the fire is out. He digs his phone out of his pocket to open up his app to look up Magnus’s file.

There’s _a lot._ Some of it seems to be false — it says his soulmate is over eight hundred, and while Alec isn’t willing to trust Asmodeus that far, he’s more inclined to believe the demon’s assertion of his son’s age — and oh. Oh, his soulmate is _gorgeous._ Alec spends several minutes flipping through all the pictures instead of reading the information in the file.

He pulls himself out of his stupor when he realizes he’s been staring at the same picture for almost a minute — it’s recent, he thinks, taken in some sort of club. Magnus had been captured mid gesture, gleaming blue magic swirling around his hands. If Alec ever figures out who is responsible for the picture, he’s going to thank them.

The more he reads, the more he worries. Magnus has had bad experiences with shadowhunters, both during and since the Uprising. Confrontations with Alec’s _parents._

Fuck.

There’s a list of known associates at the bottom, and he clicks through them in the hope that one of the four — Camille Belcourt, Catarina Loss, Ragnor Fell, or Raphael Santiago — will be able to answer his question of whether or not Magnus will have an issue with Alec being a shadowhunter. His deal with Asmodeus hadn’t included truth, just his son’s name. Alec can’t afford to trust him.

After reading them all — and vowing to kill Camille Belcourt at the earliest opportunity —  he decides that Ragnor Fell sounds like the person most likely to answer Alec’s questions without attacking him over it. Or running off to Magnus to tell him that his soulmate is alive, a shadowhunter, and the son of two people that Magnus doesn’t like. He would like to prevent all of that from happening.

He puts his phone back in his pocket and taps his fingers on his thigh thoughtfully. Technically, he doesn’t need anyone’s permission to take the portal to Idris, then take another from Idris to London. He doesn’t even have to pretend he’s got a mission — it’s his day off. He can just…  be taking a day trip to London. For fun.

He’s a terrible liar, after all. No one will look further into it.

He nods decisively to himself and sets off.

* * *

Ragnor opens his front door to find a _shadowhunter_ on his stoop.

“You don’t have an appointment,” he says reflexively, fighting the urge to slam the door in the boy’s face. Because he is a boy — twenty, maybe, if he’s a day — and Ragnor has no patience for shadowhunters at the best of times, much less young ones.

“I will pay you a lot of money,” the boy says, wedging his foot in the door frame like he knows Ragnor is contemplating slamming it shut. “Also, I have this weird stick your file says belongs to you.”

Ragnor looks at him and his complete lack of stick anywhere visible pointedly. The boy rolls his eyes — rude — and digs…  yes, that’s Ragnor’s missing enchanted dowsing rod, out of his jacket. Why is there an American shadowhunter on his doorstep with his missing property?

Ragnor looks from the rod in the boy’s hands back up to the boy’s face. He’s being looked at hopefully.

“A _lot_ of money,” he agrees, curious despite himself, and steps back to let the boy in.

The boy trails after him into his parlor, Ragnor’s neck prickling the entire way, disliking a shadowhunter at his back.

“Well,” he says briskly. “Hand over my ‘weird stick’ and tell me what you’re here for.”

The boy considers him for a moment before passing the dowsing rod over.

“I just want you to answer a question for me. And not tell anyone I asked,” he says.

Ominous, Ragnor thinks. He’s starting to regret getting curious.

“On the condition that you’re not planning on harming anyone, yes,” Ragnor says, because he’s already got the shadowhunter in his house. If something is going to go badly wrong, it’s better to get him safely _out_ before anything else.

“You’re friends with Magnus Bane, right?” Ragnor feels a chill go down this back at the boy’s question. Oh _no._ He does not like where this is going. The boy continues, oblivious. “I was wondering if you could tell me if he’s interested in meeting his soulmate or not?”

Ragnor’s rising panic stops.

 _No._ He looks over the boy carefully. It can’t be.

“You’re Alexander Gideon Lightwood,” Ragnor says, stupefied. “You’re _in my house._ ”

The boy perks up a little.

“Is that a yes?” Lightwood asks, eyes shining. He looks like a _Disney character._ “His father said he’d been looking for me, but I didn’t really want to trust that.”

“What,” Ragnor says, jarred out of his stupor. “His father? You met—”

“I got impatient,” Lightwood cuts him off, shrugging. “My mark was descriptive but not very unique, and since Asmodeus would obviously know the names of his children, I summoned him to ask.”

“How old are you,” Ragnor demands flatly.

“I’m seventeen. Why did you both ask that?” Lightwood answers.

Not twenty. Seventeen. He’d had Magnus’s true name on his arm for _three years_ before getting impatient enough to _summon a greater demon_ in order to find Magnus.

He was a _child._ “You’re not even an adult.”

“Yes I am,” Lightwood returns immediately. He’s not defensive, like Ragnor would expect a teenager to be at being told they weren’t a grown up. “Legally, anyway.”

Right. Shadowhunters.

“You’ve only had your soul mark for _three years,_ ” Ragnor stresses.

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” Lightwood is glaring at him a little now. Ragnor would normally be worried about a shadowhunter glaring at him, but this is Magnus’s soulmate, so he just…  isn’t. No one meant for Magnus can be a terrible person.

“Is he interested in meeting me or not?” Lightwood asks again.

“No, we’re not done,” Ragnor says, taking a breath to center himself. “You’re seventeen, you’ve had your soulmark for three years, and you got so impatient waiting to find your soulmate that your solution was to summon a greater demon in order to track him down instead of assuming fate would bring you together in due time? Do I have this right?”

The boy _rolls his eyes_ at him. The gall.

“Yes,” Lightwood confirms. “Will you answer my question now?”

This is _impossible._

“I can contact him and tell him you’re here. His father was right, he has been looking for you,” Ragnor offers, slowly. He can’t help but stare at Lightwood. He’s half convinced the boy is a hallucination, simply because he’s having trouble believing Magnus’s soulmate is _this perfect for him._

“Yes,” Lightwood agrees eagerly. “Let’s do that.”

Ragnor gives him another disbelieving look before casting a communication spell.

There’s a scrambling noise on the other side of it before he hears Magnus’s alarmed voice on the other end. “Ragnor? Is everything alright?”

“Hello Magnus,” Ragnor says, eyes still on Lightwood’s face — the boy is listening avidly, a smile on his lips — “Your soulmate is in my parlor, would you like to come over?”

There’s a moment of silence, then Magnus is stumbling out of a portal into his home. His eyes are wide and locked on Lightwood, who has transferred his gaze to Magnus.

“ _Hi,_ ” Magnus says, breathlessly. They’re separated by half a room. He sees Lightwood take a small step forward without seeming to realize it.

“ _Hi,_ ” Lightwood says back. “You’re way hotter than the pictures in your Clave file made you seem, and I didn’t think that was possible.”

Magnus makes a noise like he’s dying. Ragnor can’t blame him. That was smooth.

“Magnus,” Ragnor says, to move this on from the ‘staring into each other’s eyes’ stage, “Ask Lightwood how he ended up in my house, asking me if you were interested in meeting your soulmate.”

“How did you end up in Ragnor’s house to find out if I was interested in meeting you, Alexander?” Magnus repeats obediently.

Lightwood has crept forward a little more. Ragnor doesn’t know if Lightwood thinks he’s being stealthy or not, but he isn’t.

“I summoned your father to ask him to translate your name on my arm so I could find you, but your Clave file said you didn’t like shadowhunters. So I came here to ask your friend if your father was telling the truth about you looking for me,” the boy says easily, still staring at Magnus, like that course of action was perfectly normal and not completely insane. “He was really nice, actually. I’m pretty sure he’s going to be a better in-law than my mother.”

Magnus blinks rapidly. Oh, good. At least someone else in this situation understands why this is absolutely ridiculous.

“You…  summoned my father in the middle of New York and didn’t set off any alarms,” Magnus repeats slowly. “Because the only Lightwoods I know are Robert and Maryse and their children, and they’re based in New York.”

“I’m good at planning,” Alexander says, staring dreamily at Magnus. Magnus is staring dreamily back. Dammit, no one else in this situation understands why this is absolutely ridiculous.

“I suddenly have so many regrets about not keeping track of what your parents named their children,” Magnus says blankly. Alexander has managed to cross half the distance between them. Ragnor can tell Magnus thinks it’s adorable. It is honestly very charming, which is why Ragnor understands why Magnus isn’t moving.

Ragnor summons a drink.

“Tell him why you summoned Asmodeus to ask instead of trusting the Angel to bring you together, Lightwood,” Ragnor says, watching the boy inch closer to Magnus again. He’s nearly within touching distance.

“I got impatient,” Lightwood says, like that’s a reasonable motivation.

Magnus stops staring at him dreamily to stare at him in shock instead. “I’m sorry, you what?”

“I got impatient,” Lightwood repeats.

“How old are you?” Magnus asks.

“I’m seventeen,” Lightwood tells him, and there’s no annoyance this time, because of course not. Ragnor doesn’t even know if today is real or not at this point.

He can see the thoughts whirling in Magnus’s brain. Magnus had managed to make it four hundred years, patiently waiting and keeping a weather eye on the Lightwood family for the majority of that. And his beautiful, perfect, _wonderful_ soulmate hadn’t even managed to make it _three years._

They were disgustingly perfect for each other.

“I _adore_ you,” Magnus says before leaning forward to close what little distance is left between himself and Lightwood. Ragnor snaps a picture to text to Catarina and Raphael.

“Please do not make out in my parlor,” he says, directly afterwards. “I don’t need to see this.”

“Please leave your parlor, then,” Magnus says politely, pulling back to gaze dreamily into his soulmate’s eyes again. Then he wraps one hand in the boy’s shirt and puts the other on the back of Lightwood’s neck, holding him still so Magnus can lick into his mouth.

Lightwood moans and Ragnor decides that discretion is the better part of valor and books it out of his own sitting room.

He hears the distinct sound of someone being shoved into a wall as he waves the door closed behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to write a short soulmate fic, I tell Briallen. 
> 
> 3,200 words later, I asked Briallen to stop laughing at me (she didn't).
> 
> ETA: Y'all, we did not want to have to take _steps_ , but we have to, I guess. Everyone just lost the privilege of anon commenting. Come @ us on [tumblr](http://alxndrlightwoods.tumblr.com) if you wanna yell on anon, I guess.


End file.
